


Laundromat Blues

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Break Up, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Laundry, M/M, Naked Castiel, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, as naked as he can be anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 03:28:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3921226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, what’s the deal? She just left you high and dry?”</p><p>Cas stared at him through slit eyes. Yeah, maybe Dean wasn’t the most sensitive guy. “No, my clothes are in the washer, but I’m pretty sure my ex has most of my personals.”</p><p>"So what, she broke up with you over phone?" Dean was a tad furious now, as he took note of the cellular device hanging nimbly in his left hand. "What did you do?"</p><p>"I told him off."</p><p>And that's what he gets for assuming all naked guys crouched morosely beside dingy laundry machines were straight. "Well good for you."</p><p>"Actually, he dumped me."</p><p>Or the one where Castiel gets unceremoniously dumped by some holy tax accountant while he's running an errand and Dean just happens to be in the same vicinity when he notices the attractive crying man bleed heart juice onto his red polka boxers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laundromat Blues

_Thump clank crash_ went the sound of weeks’ worth of overdue laundry, like an old Ramones song. And like the world’s greatest punk band, his shirts, along with his frayed jeans and thinly-threaded socks, were far from wear-and-tear. Dean had one rule about clothes: If it still fit, he wore it. That rule has carried with him into his first interview with the Kansas City Fire Department when he wore his three-piece tuxedo from senior prom.

It goes without saying that he didn’t land his dream job. But hey, at least as a mechanic he made just a little less per annum without having wear eighty pounds of potentially defective equipment. He still kept the suit though, just in case.

Usually, he would strip down to his jeans (working with cars was worse than drilling for Exxon), but a man a few feet from him kept him in his thin purple Henley. He wasn’t much older than Dean, and judging from his peripheral, wasn’t much happier, either. He was sitting so that his knees supported his head, angled glumly at the linoleum floor. He reminded Dean vaguely of his brother, Sam, the night he was told his girlfriend hadn’t made it out of the house fire.

Dean held him for hours. Then he proceeded to hold his hair while he conjured every last meal from his childhood. He has a new girlfriend now, Madison, but he was never quite the same after Jessica.

Now, Dean knew Sunday nights were bad, but not bad enough to hole up in a laundromat. Something was seriously wrong.

“Hey, man, are you okay?” What a stupid friggin’ question. Of course he’s not okay, Winchester, the dude’s sitting there—naked down to his red polka boxers, on closer inspection—probably debating whether or not to chug a half-empty bottle of Tide. Dean’s been down this road before. Maybe it was better to just… _clunk_ , on top of the washer lid it went _._ There, out of sight, out of mind.

The man peered up at the curious stranger, enflamed eyes hiding a shade of blue that would’ve matched his front perfectly. “Other than the fact that I wasted seven months of my life on a friggin’ cretin,” he grumbled, and Dean almost didn’t hear him, his voice was so deep, “Peachy.”

“Mea culpa,” Dean acknowledged, abstaining from a chuckle. Without thinking, he sat cross-legged next to the attractive crying man and folded his hands contemplatively. Usually, Dean wasn’t this forward, not even with his one-nighters down at the local bar. But he couldn’t just leave this guy alone, at least not without pathetically offering him spare clothes first. “Talk to me.”

The man looked at him through thick, wet lashes. “No offense, but I don’t even know your name.”

“Right,” replied Dean, this time emancipating an underhand chuckle, “I’m Dean, Dean Winchester.”

“Castiel,” the guy offered, then: “I would shake your hand, but…” He gestured to his limp wrist, roofed in snot. Dean wasn’t even going to mention the condition of some of the instruments he’s had to touch today because he forgot his toolbox at home. Let’s just say he’s fairly certain he’ll have to be admitted for gonorrhea tomorrow.

Nonetheless, Dean did nothing short of humoring him. The guy needed it, anyway. “You’re good.” He drank in his current state (which wasn’t all that bad, physically, if you asked him) and took a moment before commenting, “So, what’s the deal? She just left you high and dry?”

Cas stared at him through slit eyes. Yeah, maybe Dean wasn’t the most _sensitive_ guy. “No, my clothes are in the washer, but I’m pretty sure my ex has most of my personals.”

"So what, she broke up with you over phone?" Dean was a tad furious now, as he took note of the cellular device hanging nimbly in his left hand. "What did you do?"

"I told him off."

And that's what he gets for assuming all naked guys crouched morosely beside dingy laundry machines were straight. "Well good for you."

"Actually, he dumped me."

Dean sat gobsmacked at the confession. How someone could leave Castiel stranded in the middle of a laundromat was beyond him. Aside from that, the guy was friggin' gorgeous. He had the charm of Marlon Brando and the eyes of the late and great Paul Newman. If he grew out his hair more, he'd outshine the both of them combined. "Alright, who's the lucky guy that gets a date with my fist?"

"Ion," Cas replied, hiding his dimples with a sniffle. "But he's probably two states over by now. He's a _businessman_ , very busy."

"Doesn't give Cable Guy probable cause to be an asshole."

Cas dabbed his eyes with the palm of his right hand. "I appreciate your concern, Dean, I do, but I'm afraid nothing can make me feel better right now."

"Not even pie?" Dean tried. Dessert was always the way to his heart. Whoever said the person that gets broken up with suffers the most in the aftermath of a breakup obviously hasn’t seen Dean Winchester after broke up with his girlfriend Lisa. He spent his afternoon convincing the owner of the Dairy Queen’s across the street to rent out the backroom to his convenience. Needless to say, Pamela Barnes had no idea what to do with that until he enticed her with his emerald eyes and a crisp Benjamin. (“Do what you have to do, just don’t hoard all the Dilly Bars.”)

Cas shook his head weakly. "Not even a diabetes-infused pastry can warm the cockles of my heart."

“Is that right, do cockles have hearts?”

“I don’t know,” Cas admitted, masticating his lower lip like a worn-out chew toy. “I always assumed the gooey part was the heart.” Dean nodded. His Hobbit-inspired five-course meals were never anything short of fast food chains and a few regrettable taco carts, but it made sense. “Dean?”

Dean snapped his head to the lone man in his underwear. “Hmm?”

“I’ve never had cockles.” He said it like it was some sacred family secret. Dean snorted.

“Neither have I.”

It was a leap of pure faith and intuition, but Dean had nothing to lose. He put his arm around his bicep and urged Castiel's head on his shoulder. Cas, to what he thought would be his chagrin, granted him just that. He even curled into his side a little, to which the Big Spoon smiled. He was warm, probably more than what constituted normal body temperature. But then his feather-light arm snagged the stuffy air and landed on his midriff and Dean couldn’t find it in him to care.  

And he thought maybe, just maybe, Sunday nights weren’t so bad after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr @ doppelganging-misha! I might even write you something if you're good. Or bribe me with a seasonal pass to every SPN Convention ever. But the first one works, too.


End file.
